


Swan Dive

by teaandjam



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, I'm sorry it's really angsty, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2014-01-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 05:46:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaandjam/pseuds/teaandjam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John just can't take it anymore.</p><p>Warning attempted suicide and a whole bucketload of angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was sad and this fic just wrote itself. Might right a second chapter or a Sherlock POV version idk ill see how I feel...
> 
> Unbeta-ed, all mistakes are mine so just give me a holler if you see one.
> 
> I don't own anything. I don't get money, just tears.

John couldn't remember how he got there. He couldn't remember walking into St. Bart's hospital, walking through the hallways, climbing up each of the stairs that led him to the roof. But here he was, tears streaming down his face, sitting on the ledge, one weight-transfer away from 11 stories of free-falling. But the main thing was, he was here. Here, where Sherlock stood for the spoke his last words, walked his last step, took his last breathe. Here was where John Watson's soul died, so this should be where his mind and body died too.

He took out his mobile, and dialled in a number he still had memorized even after 3 years. It went straight to voicemail.

"You've reached Sherlock Holmes. If you are calling for a case, leave your details as briefly as possible. If not, hang up now."

Upon hearing Sherlock's voice, even if only a recording, made a shattering sob escape him. He heard the tone, and began slowly.

"Sherlock, you've been dead for three years." He started, voice breaking. "They have been the worst three years of my life.

"For the entire first year, I was in denial. I woke up every morning expecting you to be sulking on the couch. I found myself missing your dark moods, days that there were no cases or experiments or people constantly knocking on our door. The days where it was just you and me. And for an entire year, I just pretended that's what was happening. For an entire year There was two cups of tea, two plates of breakfast, two newspapers, two orders of take-away, the list goes on. Lestrade would call every so often, but I always told him you were to busy for a case. I could almost hear his smiles of pity as he agreed.

"On the one year mark of your death, I truly realized you were never coming back. I spent that entire day staring at the smily face you shot on to the wall, expecting it to reassure me or comfort me or something, but it just stared at me with a mocking smile. That second year, I didn't talk to anyone outside Mrs. Hudson, because she was giving me an unrealistically cheap rent, which Mycroft pretty much paid for. I spent that entire year staring at that bloody wall, only popping out of the flat for groceries. I would wake up from the dreams of you that plagued me every night, I would go to the kitchen to find it painfully clean, and make myself breakfast. I still would make two cups of tea, and I still do. After eating, I would stare at the wall until sleep plagued me. I tried to keep out the sleep for as long as I could, because once I fell asleep, that's when you came back. I had two dreams that I cycled through, both equally as cruel: I would dream of you falling, over and over like a broken record, to which I would scream myself awake... Or I would dream of us just at home. Going through the movements, you would sulk, and I would remind you to eat, and things like that. And when I would wake up, I would scream for you, for that to be the reality instead of this hell-hole I'm living in.

"Once the third year started, I decided I needed to pull myself the fuck together. I started back up at the surgery, I went to the pub for a drink once in a while. But that almost made it more painful. I would see a man with black curls and a long coat, and run blocks and blocks after them, only to find a lack of you and more of someone else. I would have to walk to the surgery, even with my newly returned limp, because all the cabs go by St. Bart's and I can't go back there without painful flashbacks... But worst of all, I would run into people who still think your a fake. There was this one time in a pub with Mike when I heard some guy talking about how you made up all the cases and it was a good thing you were gone for good. I knocked him out and broke his nose. Even though I was arrested and almost went to jail (but didn't, thanks to Lestrade), it made me less numb inside to think that you might have smiled at that.

"I'm a soldier. I've seen the deaths of my colleagues, my good friends, and even my sister last year. But none have ever affected me as much as yours has. I spent three years wondering why this is. And this morning, I finally realized. It took 2 years with you and 3 years without for me to realize this. 

"Sherlock Holmes, I am, and always will be, hopelessly in love with you.

"And I know that I have never loved anyone as much as I love you. And I probably never will. So that's why I've decided to come join you. Because living in this world is not worth it if it doesn't have you in it.

"So put the kettle on honey, cuz I'm coming home."

And with that, he stood up, and was about to take a leap when he heard a voice he thought he'd never hear again.

"John NO!" 

He felt a warm hand catch his wrist before he had a chance to fall, and opened his eyes to match those of a loving and completely terrified consulting detective.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock POV and prequel
> 
> Probably going to be longer than the other chapter, because that was just something I did while I was ssad and not considering continuing, but here I am :)
> 
> I have this head canon that, because Sherlock is always so eloquent and John always struggles to keep up, in love Sherlock would be lost out of his mind and John would be the poetic, eloquent one. I don't know, just a thought. Tell me what you think!
> 
> Happy Series 3!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are amazing. I haven't written many fics but the amount of hits and kudos have been totally awesome! And huge smushy kisses to everyone that commented because I wouldn't have had the initiative to complete this without them so thanks tons and keep it coming! I might make it a series who knows... Sorry it took so long for me to find the time to sit down and actually write but I can also promise a sequel to this very soon if you would be into it!
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing but my sadness

He'd done it.

 

_Finally._

 

It had taken him three years. Three long years of fighting, stealing, murdering less-than-innocent civilians but he'd done it. Sebastian Moran lay dead at his feet and for the first time in 3 years he could breath.

 

Inhale. Exhale. Phone. Ticket. Home.  _John._

 

It seemed he was only able to think in one word intervales now. Strange. Sentiment.

 

John. John. John.  _John._

 

_Finally._

 

He climbed the steps of 221B Baker Street to find no one home - not even Mrs. Hudson. Luckily he didn't have to break in or anything, his key was one of the only possesions Mycroft allowed him to bring with him from his London life. His key, his violin, and a picture of John have been the only things consoling him this entire time. The picture was warped with mud and tear stains, but you could still faintly make out John's figure laughing after Sherlock let him style his hair into a mohawk. (Bad idea. Never again.) This picture was his promise. Whenever things got tough, people wouldn't die, and he just wanted to go home so his doctor could try to fix him (which happened more than Sherlock would like to admit) this photo reminded him that John was not safe. He would never hear that glorious giggle ever again if he didn't finish this. So that's what he did.

 

_Finally._

 

No one at Baker Street, but he still found himself looking around, silently deducing. Shards of broken mug, tear stains... Not good. And that was even before he found the note.

 

It was placed neatly on his chair. Barely put there a minute ago (must have just missed him. Too late. Too late.) and sitting on his chair as inconspicuous as a murder case (though probably not the best analogy in the world.)

 

_To anyone reading this I'm probably already dead. You can find my real note on Sherlock's voice mail, not that you'll care. I don't even know why I'm writing this note, but if your looking for me I'll be on the sidewalk at the bottom of St. Barts. Preferably with my head smashed in._

_Anyways, it was probably nice knowing you. Sorry._

 

Sherlock couldn't even hear himself scream, though his sore throat probably meant that he was. 

 

Too late. Too late.

 

No. It was just left there a minute ago he could catch him. There was still time, but not enough time for a cab. He's not sure when he started running, it's all just a blur, but as he reaches St. Barts he hears his phone ring. He can see a sillouette on the roof.

 

_Is this what it felt like? For you?_

_I'm so sorry._

 

He doesn't answer, he just lets it go to voice mail. But he picks it up and listens to the stream of words live-time, even if they're nothing like the kind of words he wants to hear.

 

He couldn't remember walking into St. Bart's hospital, walking through the hallways, climbing up each of the stairs that led him to the roof. But here he was; and there John was, tears streaming down his face, sitting on the ledge, one weight-transfer away from 11 stories of free-falling. But the main thing was, Sherlock was here. And Sherlock was not about to let John fall. 

 

_Never._

 

Just as he got to the roof, he heard John's voice from both the roof and the delayed static from the telephone. Then he heard meaningless words, meaningless letters, meaningless syllables, but the way they were crafted together and strung he hung on every sentence and his insides churned and his heart burned and Sherlock wondered how this could be achieved with just a couple of not-so-meaningless words.

 

_"Sherlock Holmes, I am, and always will be, hopelessly in love with you."_

_"And I know that I have never loved anyone as much as I love you. And I probably never will."_

 

And then after Sherlock's world had just started, he was happier than he had ever been, Terror swooped in with his icy fingers to grab hold of his heart after John continued.

 

_"I've decided to come join you. Because living in this world is not worth it if it doesn't have you in it."_

_"So put the kettle on honey, cuz I'm coming home."_

 

And oh, God. He had never run faster in his life. Not away from criminals, not to his parents after boarding school, not even to slit the thraot of the last remaining member of Moriary's spider web. No, he ran and ran for what seemed like miles but was onl about 5 feet - because John was going to jump.

 

_God no. Jesus no._

_Imagining John. John lying on the pavement with his head bashed in. Feeling for John's pulse and finding nothing. Medics lifting John onto a stretcher._

_Is this what it felt like? For you?_

_I'm so sorry. Please forgive me._

_I love you. Please don't leave me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your reviews mean more to me than John does to Sherlock. Just let that sink in.


End file.
